Seyella
by Frederick Grace
Summary: If you had the chance to see ahead, to see your future, your destiny - would you take it? And if you did... Would you like what you saw? Or would it simply drive you mad? Sequel to Mnemosyne, and previously titled VENDETTA. Slightly AU, implied slash.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Characters owned by J K Rowling

**Disclaimer: Characters owned by J K Rowling.**

**Seyella**

Its midnight. The world is dark, and a screech owl cries, as fireflies dance around the moon.

She is dancing through the silvery long-grass, dressed in the grey of mourning, her hair a halo of white-gold, her footsteps as light as the brush of a butterfly wing. Seyella, goddess of Time, Being and Becoming, her eyes of diamond fire, blinded and scorched by the Tree of Life set aflame. She knows who you are, who you were, and the person that you will become. She knows everything, every moment, and every event that ever has been, or ever will come to pass. Seyella sees reality in her mind, and for a price, she allows some specially chosen mortals a choice. To see their footprints in the sand, the path in front, and the path before.

But do you really want to know your destiny?

It cannot be changed, fought or broken.

Many men tried, and all of them died.

But would that really stop you from giving your everything to change the inevitable?

And still she walks on, spilling the secrets of what her blinded eyes see, and still man listens. Still, man responds. And still, the world stays dark, and the owls fly on, and the fireflies dance around the moon.

**Authors Note: **Sequel to Mnemosyne. If you like the Marauder Era, then I would recommend it.

**Next Chapter: **Harry Potter.

Reviews would be much appreciated!


	2. The End of It All

**Disclaimer: Characters owned by J K Rowling.**

This takes place at the end of book seven (the last battle), and is slightly AU. Sequel to Mnemosyne.

**Harry James Potter**

**The End of It All**

_The moon is full and shining bright. _

_A biting wind tears at my skin like nails of glass, howling like banished demons._

_As I step out of the trees, the grass is dark and slippery with blood._

_A cry goes up as the moonlight flickers across my face, green curse-light glinting off my glasses._

"_He's here! It's him!"_

_They scream as though I am the one who's killing them._

_The whole field is alight in a deadly firework display, the unforgivables lighting up the heavens. _

_I step forwards, I see his face._

_I see his eyes, red and burning._

_I dimly wonder, is this what my parents saw too?_

_Was this creature of darkness, his burning eyes, his manic laughter…_

_Was he what they saw before they died?_

_I'll know soon._

_I'll be joining them, my family._

_My father._

_My mother._

_Sirius._

_Their sacrifice will not be in vain._

_I will avenge them in death._

_I look up, raise my wand._

_Green meets red._

_Priori incantatem glows between us, an unspoken thread of similarity._

_The light explodes off my trusty Holly bough, and I scream in pain, head thrown back, as my memories cloud around me, as though playing fast forward on a black and white screen._

A ghost of a memory flickers to life inside his mind, the years of his life playing backwards, like a mighty oak tree receding into the acorn, buried deep in the bowels of the earth. Like a tidal wave washing backwards, shrinking down into the sunset on the horizon.

All he could see was darkness. The smell was unbearable, rising like a tidal wave, and crashing down around him in a barrage of vomit, piss and unwashed three year old boy. He gagged and breathed in against his will, inhaling currents of dust, and the stale air you get in disused libraries, or perhaps a broom cupboard of some sort. He choked, and tears of suffering begin their routine path down pale, grimy cheeks. "I'm sowwy, I'm sowwy Uncle, I din't mean to! Harry sowwy now!" He begged, pleaded, cried and prayed to be let out, but once again, his cries went unchecked and unnoticed, and Harry realised with a sharp tingle of ice-cold horror that no one was listening. He was whimpering, curled up afraid and in the dark, and no one was listening, no one was coming to save him. No one cared. And he was stuck here. Trapped in a cage of plasterboard and wood, breathing in recycled air, sitting in his own filth, with no one to pray to but long dead parents. The tears dripped off the end of his nose, soaking his ragged t-shirt as he curled into a ball and tried to block out the surroundings, muttering himself a lullabye as he succumbs to nightmares a damn sight nicer than the one he was currently living.

The Cupboard Under The Stairs. Little Harry's own personal Hell. In his little three year old mind, Harry cannot even begin to perceive what it was that he did. He _must _have been bad; his Uncle wouldn't punish him otherwise. But what was it that he did bad? All he did was make a new friend. Surely making friends didn't mean he was a Devil's Child? A Demon? Evil? Maybe Venom would rescue him anyway? The thought of Uncle Vernon running in terror from little Venom was a comforting one, that warmed little Harry to the soul as he drifted off into a fitful sleep, plagued with nightmares of fat, leering Uncles, high pitched laughter, and the screams of a woman – all bathed in flashes of shocking green light.

Its four years later, and Harry is seven whole years old. By now, he hadn't seen a lot of the world – in fact, since The Venom Incident; he wasn't even allowed to weed the garden. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Harry Potter didn't even exist. Some days, Harry considered this, and in his young mind, he leapt to the only possible explanation. He wasn't supposed to be here. Sitting in his cupboard one wintry afternoon, he sketched idly on the back of a discarded envelope, using broken crayon stubs that he had painstakingly saved after Dudley had snapped them in a temper tantrum. Soon the scribbles of green and red and brown form the vaguely recognisable humanoid shapes of his parents. "Mummy and Daddy," Harry breathed softly, stroking their faces with pale fingertips. He didn't know their names.

Aunt Petunia called them "My Freaky Sister" and "That Freaky Boy". He didn't know why Aunt Petunia called them that. He didn't think it was very nice – she called him Freak too, and it made his heart feel like bitter fire. Suddenly, inexplicably, the world made sense. Harry wasn't supposed to be here! He was supposed to be with his parents. Maybe, if he found them, they'd love him, because he was a Freak too – just like them! He smiled to himself, and hummed an out of tune lullabye. As he slipped into the world of dreams, Harry pondered about how you reach The Pits of Hell. Aunt Petunia said wicked people went there - and monsters. Harry tried to be good, he really did, but she said he's Evil. She said he's Wrong. And of course, she's a grown up, so she always tells the truth. Sleep is making his mind fuzzy, the Sandman's fingers reaching into his mind, clouding it with blackness and echoes of green. Before he loses himself to the nightmares, Harry finally decided. One day, he would find them, and join them, and love them as he should.

After all, what little boy _wouldn't _walk into the depths of Hell, into the blazing abyss, just to find his Mummy and Daddy?

The next memory surges forwards to the front of his mind with a feeling strongly reminiscent of brain-freeze. The day he got his letter. The day he found out what he truly was. It had been raining all day, and Uncle Vernon had threatened to shoot him multiple times. At ten years old, Harry was terrified. Eventually they had arrived at a tiny rock hut, in the middle of the sea, a storm raging all around them. Harry had slipped when clambering out of the rickety rowing boat, hit his shoulder on a rock and cried out in pain. Next thing he knew, he was being held over the edge of the land, directly over the storm tossed sea, and the perilous rocks beneath, that seemed to gaze up at him in hunger, the waves lapping at him with bloodlust. He didn't even hear Vernon's numerous threats of being dropped and eaten by sharks – he just felt the absolute, soul chilling certainty that this was it. He was going to die. At the hands of his uncle, drowned like an unwanted puppy.

However, at Petunia's semi-horrified yell that Dudley was cold, he was unceremoniously dropped onto the cold stone of the Earth, alone and shaking, his trousers soaked in urine, and his shirt in vomit, where he'd lost control in his fear. He had half walked, half crawled to the cottage, where he curled up in the corner, sleep as his only escape. However, every time his eyes unfocused, and his mind began to drift, the only thing that came into spine tingling clarity, was himself, helpless, useless, unable to save himself. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind span out over the abyss, and every time, his uncle dropped him, and every time he fell, further and further, splashing into freezing cold; decomposing skeletons and bloody-mouthed sea monsters leering at him out of the waves. Harry fell further and further, pain gripping him like the iron fist of his uncle. And as he slowly drowned, his lungs burning, his eyes unfocused, black tendrils of death crushing his spirit, his eyes were going out, the pain immeasurable, he was dying and mum and dad and death and pain and dying and-

-the door was kicked in with an almighty crash, jerking him forwards out of his nightmares with a choked scream. Harry wasn't to know he'd been screaming and coughing and retching for over an hour – the Dursely's simply ignoring him as he drowned in his fear. He sat up slowly, ignoring the screaming and the yelling and the – was that gunfire? He hauled himself to his feet, and looked at the visitor. Tall and broad, with eyes as wild as the mane of hair that encircled his head and chin, a giant of a man. Harry took a wary step back, the giant was talking way too loudly, his footsteps shaking the floor, why was he still shouting? Why was he here, why- the letter. Harry's eyes pulled back into focus and he stepped forwards, accepting the envelope, It was thick and yellow, and made of strange paper. The writing was flowing and green, the letters seemingly foreign, though the language was English. He turned it over, and took time to study the shield emblazoned in red wax, before he split the seal and read his letter.

He finished reading and raised his eyes to the giants face. He licked his lips and tried to remember how to breathe. "I… Why would you… This isn't true." He mumbled finally, the words bruising their way past chapped lips. There was no way, there was just no way… After all these years of pain and suffering, there was just no way he was… magic. Hagrid was burbling on about being able to do amazing, extraordinary things, but Harry wasn't listening. He flattened a palm over his chest, and felt the rhythm of his heart. It pounded solidly, reassuring against his cold fingers. He blinked at the sound of Uncle Vernon shouting, swearing, cursing about conjurours, magicians, magic tricks, freaks- No. Harrys mouth dropped open, and he turned to Aunt Petunia. "A…Aunt Petunia. Is… Is it true? Is it real?" Slowly she lifted her head to face him, and her face twisted into a grimace of… guilt? Or disgust? But still she answered, the two words ringing clearly through his mind, like a bell, like a knife, like a bullet ripping through him.

"Of Course".

Harry staggered backwards, his face pale, his mind blank like television static. He was a wizard. He could do magic. His parents could do magic. Hagrid, the giant man could do magic. Magic was real! Harry frowned. If his parents were magic, why did they die? How could they die? It must have been an accident, or murder, or- what did it matter. They were still dead, but he, Harry Potter, could do magic, and he, Harry, would being them back. After all, even though Harry may have found himself, he had yet to find them.

The next day passed in a blur of scars and fame and magic and owls and wands and cauldrons and goblins and dragons and robes and _magic_. He still couldn't quite get his head round it. He was as abnormal, as freaky, as _wrong _as it was possible to get, and these people were clamouring to touch him. For something he could barely remember. As he stood in Madam Malkin's, his wand in his sleeve, and his mind in a whirl, his blank gaze drifted to meet the silvery eyes of a pale, blonde haired boy, who was standing to be measured, and looking over his shoulder boredly. While Madame Malkin was preoccupied with another round faced boy, and a lost toad, the pale haired boy turned to him properly, and looked him up and down. "Hogwarts, I suppose?" he drawled, and Harry felt a small thrill of amazement. Another wizard – this boy was a wizard!

"Y..Yes" he stammered, chewing his lip anxiously. The boy raised an eyebrow.

"Why so nervous?" Harry blinked at him, not sure what to say. But he had asked…

"I… I'm new to all this. I don't… Its… magic!" he breathed. The boy recoiled slightly, his face a grimace of distate.

"You mean… You're a mu- I mean, your parents weren't wizards?" Harry shook his head hastily, afraid he'd said something wrong.

"N…No, they were, I think they were, b...but… Theyre dead, I don't… I don't even know their names." He trailed off, eyeing the boy warily. He was watching Harry with a look akin to pity.

"Sorry." He said. "I didn't mean to…" He trailed off too, biting his lip the same way Harry had been only moments before. Harry shrugged, and mumbled something along the lines of Doesn't Matter Anyway. The boy regarded him for a moment before holding out his hand. "I'm Draco Malfoy. My parents are Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy nee Black." Harry took it shakily, and shook, his face crumpling into an unprecedented half-smile.

"I'm Harry Potter" He noticed Draco's eyes widen, before he continued. "I… I'm sorry, I don't know my family history… My, um, guardians, are Mr Vernon Dursely and Mrs Petunia Dursley, nee, um, Im not sure, I think it began with an E…"

"Evans!" said Draco promptly. "I got Outstanding in Primary Pureblood History. James Potter, son of Harold Potter, Son of Charlus Potter, descendant of the great Ignatius Potter, married one Miss Lily Evans, a muggleborn. Quite the scandal really. But still, at least she was a witch…" Harry nodded, beaming, not understanding half this sentence but accepting it as fact anyway. He opened his mouth to respond when Madam Malkin came over with a blonde woman, who began to usher Draco out of the shop, dismissing Harry completely. Draco looked back over his shoulder, and Harry smiled and mouthed a Thank You. He was pretty sure Draco understood.

That night, Harry slept with a smile on his face. His clothes were clean, his body unbruised, and his heart was happy. Tomorrow he'd go to Hogwarts.

His first year at Hogwarts is a whirlwind of magic and staircases that move, portraits that talk. Draco's betrayal that broke his heart, Ron and Hermione's friendship that re-built it again. He remembers defeating the troll, seeing the mirror, his heart crying out for his parents. And then saving the stone, saving the world. Killing Quirrel, defeating Voldemort. His first murder, vengeance for his parents. He thought it had ended there.

The next year, he was so alone. Laughed at, feared, bullied, he was plagued by the feeling that… Well, what if it was his fault? What if he was the Heir of Slytherin? He can talk to snakes, after all. He is a Freak. His aunt and uncle were right. Then, in the chamber, he met Tom. Little Tommy Riddle, the boy Voldemort used to be. And it scared him more than anything ever before – the idea that this psychopath was so like him… Riddle's words plagued him for years afterwards. "We are the same, Harry. I am you, you are me. We will follow the same path, Little Slytherin". Every time he saw a Slytherin badge, he remembered the words. He remembered what the Sorting Hat told him. He remembered Riddle, and he wondered – is that who I will become? The fact that he killed the Basilisk with the sword of Godric Gryffindor himself meant nothing to Harry. Anyone can fool the hat – after all, Harry did choose his house. But was it where he was meant to be? Or was he being the most Slytherin of them all – tricking his way into Gryffindor house, just for his own personal gain? Who was he? Every night he would question it, and every night he dreamt of Riddle, his high cold laugh and his eyes red and burning, and then his own face in the mirror, his green eyes dissolving in swirls of blood-red and everything would dissolve in a blaze of green fire.

Third year he was haunted at every turn, by his mothers dying screams. The nightmares were worse, and he spent much of the year alone, outside, exploring the castle, and wishing for someone to find him. On one of his many explorations of the grounds, Harry met a friend. A large, black dog. The Grim. The first time he saw it, he was running from the law – the second time, it was in the Forbidden Forest. At first he had been terrified – then he'd grown calm. So he was going to die – where's the harm in that? He'd go straight to Hell with his parents anyhow. So next time he came across the dog, he'd reached out, stroked it, named it Snuffles and befriended it. In return, Snuffles was the ever-attentative listener to Harry's fears and his wishes. Then it was revealed – Snuffles was Sirius Black. His godfather. He had a godfather. (Two, in fact, though Remus was unofficial as the Ministry disapproved of his lycanthropy.) Harry spent the last few months of third year completely and blissfully happy. He had family. He had friends. His godfathers loved him, and although Remus was leaving and Sirius was on the run… They were still there. HeIt had been raining all day, and

Fourth year memories flash past, fearful, too ashamed to form properly in his mind. They are filled with dragon-fire, lake-water, mistrust, betrayal, tall hedges filled with fog and monsters. And then the graveyard… and Cedric. Harry cannot think of him without shame.

The memories are coming thicker, and faster. Thinking he killed Mr Weasley, thinking Voldemort is possessing him, thinking Sirius is being tortured, watching Sirius die. Screaming in pain as his soul dies slowly, screaming in anger as he crucio's Bellatrix Lestrange. Her screams rang in his ears for days. He remembers the pain of Voldemort inhabiting his body – he carved out his soul, and sat in his heart. And he'd been so close, so close to death, and his parents, and the end and Sirius… But instead, ever the good Gryffindor, he had soldiered on. He was going to avenge them, there would be an end to this war.

All through sixth year, he had planned, and befriended, gathering allies, alienating and crippling his enemies. Flashes of secret meetings, his soul numb, his emotions battle hardened and desensitised. Seventh year, finding love buried in old hate, strengthening friendships. Him, Remus, Severus, Draco, helping destroy the world piece by piece. The locket, the cup, the tiara, the ring, the snake… And now he was ready.

_There will be an end to this war, I think to myself. _

_I walk steadily forwards, his mocking laughter ringing in my ears. _

_I look up, towards the skies, blinking away the sheen of tears that has gathered._

_The whole world seems alive with colours, curses as fireworks, which leave shattered imprints behind my eyelids. _

_I smile softly, and raise my wand._

_Voldemort is laughing. _

_Hysteria, panic. _

_I glance at his face, and I can sense his fear._

_I whisper, I'm Sorry Tom._

_I close my eyes._

_I can't meet his gaze._

_I am about to destroy him, from inside out.. _

_I can feel cold wood against my temple, and I cant stop the involuntary shiver._

_Tears bubble from behind closed eyelids, and my voice breaks as I say the words._

_I hear Voldemort's scream._

_I hear the whole world scream._

_Green light stains the heavens, blocking out the stars._

_But I have to do this._

_For them, I will do this._

_For them, I will die._


	3. Screaming Laughter

**Disclaimer: Characters owned by J K Rowling.**

This takes place at the end of book seven (the last battle), and is slightly AU. Sequel to Mnemosyne.

**Draconis Lucius Malfoy**

**Screaming Laughter**

_The sky is falling._

_It's the 31__st__ – Halloween, and the world has ended, again._

_My life was over the minute he fell, in a shower of green, his funeral song only that of Riddle's deranged laughter._

_I can hardly breathe as I run forwards, convinced that nothing would keep me from running to be beside him._

_The mud is as slippery as sin, and I fall hard._

_I can feel my broken leg shattering in a white hot explosion of pain, and I cry out, my raw despair lost in the raging battle as I reach for him, my fingers closing over empty air._

_I can't reach..._

_I can hardly think, anymore._

_My mind is drowning, filled with this oppressive fog._

_Red, the colour of rage and shame and hatred and passion._

_Not love, though._

_Love is white hot, pure, as bright and shining as the stars._

_That's it._

_My love for him is as powerful and beautiful as the heavens._

_I can't move, my mind and body frozen, a smile of hopeless acceptance spread across my face, plastered in tears._

_I think it could be shock that stops me from screaming as I see him approach._

_Even as Riddle closes in on me, robed as though he is Death himself, here to harvest my soul;_

_Even as his lips form the words that I know will torture me to death;_

_Even as I lose control and scream and scream and scream,_

_all I can think of_

_all I can see_

_all I can remember_

_is him_

Draco Malfoy was six years old when he first discovered the tale of Harry Potter. He had demanded a bedtime story – and due to sickness (or possibly she just couldn't care less,) – Narcissa quickly deferred the task to her willing husband. Draco, naturally, wasn't disappointed at all. Lucius was a fine storyteller, and though his stories did scare Draco terribly, tales of monsters and curses and the glories of war were much preferred to the fake fairytales in the books his mother narrated monotonously. However, tonight's story was destined to be something rather special. Lucius had ended his tale of deceit and jinxes and courageous wizards who sacrificed themselves to bring about the fall of evil, but for once, Draco wasn't satisfied. "But how, Papa? How does you kill _evil_?" Lucius gave his son a pointed stare, not for a moment fooled by the innocent tone.

"How _do_ you kill evil, Draconis. And kill is such a finite word… Defeat, perhaps." His son gave him an equally knowing stare, much like the one Lucius had given him only moments before.

"Evasive answer, Papa/" The snooty tone and triumphant smirk that simply screamed pureblood bode well. The boy was a Malfoy through and through, and was in close danger of having Lucius become ridiculously proud of him. Said Lord of the House of Malfoy hid his smile and replied.

"Very well, Draco. I'll tell you. But… Best not tell your Mother, son. After all, this story is far scarier than ones you've heard before. And…" The aristocrat faltered, looking down at the unicorn pattern bedspread. Smoothing out a crease, he muttered, "And I'd not give you nightmares, son. Not for all the glories of this Earth or the next." He broke off and cleared his throat loudly, looking at the ceiling, responding to Draco's immediate and rib-cracking hug around the middle with a gruff, "Now, Draconis. Remember your place." Draco sat back, satisfied. He knew his father didn't deal well with contact, be it physical or emotional. Draco was probably the only person who had ever been able to hug Lucius on a regular basis – and live to tell that tale. (Not that he would – after all, his fathers trust meant more to him than anything.) Lucius' cold heart had long since been melted by this bundle of blonde hair and aristocracy, but as he looked at his five year old son, he felt the sudden certaincy that if he could never do anything but make Draco smile like this – then his life was worth it. Everything, it was all worth it.

Another manly throat clearing and the tale begins. "Once, many years ago, there was a man brought into this world. A man so evil, I cannot speak his name. He was referred to by several titles, each as ludicrously laborious as the next. He Who Shall Not Be Named… He We Do Not Speak Of… The colloquial, You Know Who. And of course, the Dark Lord. Now this man had power, he had intelligence, he had looks, and he had riches. He had followers. He had power. He could have made this world great, Draconis. And it was with this promise of greatness – of a world of wizards standing tall and proud, unhidden and unafraid – that he enticed us. The wealthy, the powerful, those of pure blood. Those with reputation, good standing, influence, skills of persuasion. People like me, Draco. We all joined him, in the end. He told us we would heal this world, but what he never mentioned was that something must be broken before it can be fixed.

"So, the Dark Lord began to infiltrate and sabotage. He killed people, tortured them, because they knew people who couldn't do magic. He tortured his followers too, and threatened their families. Once you swore your service to him… You'd signed your soul away, Draco, and there was no escaping his services – at least not unless you were in the embrace of death. Things rapidly spiralled out of control, got out of hand… The one who promised himself as a saviour was insane. He was deranged, a devil in guise of man. He killed people just to laugh at their screams. This world, our kind, was facing enslavement. Extinction. Genocide. He broke the backbone of our world, and brought us to our knees. We were all on our knees… Begging in the dust-" Lucius broke off, biting his tongue, his face a mask of distate. One look at Draco's worried face was enough to convince him that the story must be told. Failing all else, his son would always have hope. The happy ending was all he wished for his son.

So he continued. "One day, Draco, one day, we were greeted with the most blessed of news… It was Halloween, that night… Word came swiftly, we knew though, straight away… He was dead. The Dark Lord was dead and we were free." Lucius' voice broke again, and he cursed his lack of self-control. Draco stared up at his beloved father, his eyes wide, and his heart in his throat.

"How?" he whispered, grey eyes shining in hope and curiosity. Lucius smiled and whispered a name. A name that would affect Draco's life forever, a name that would mean more to him than any other.

"Harry Potter. A boy, Draco. Just a boy. He'd be the same age as you. For some reason, no one knows why, The Dark Lord broke into his hoe. He brutally murdered Harry's parents, and then… He turned on Harry. The Killing Curse, Draco, cannot be shielded. It cannot be deflected, blocked or survived. If you are hit by that curse, Draco, you will die. Instantly. Like a candle snuffed out in a breeze. Harry should have died, Draconis. But somehow, impossibly, he lived. The curse reflected and the Dark Lord vanquished. Destroyed, by Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived." Draco's mouth opened and closed, his face paler than normal, his eyes swimming with unshed tears.

"He wasn't hurt at all, Papa?" Lucius smiled, slightly bemused by Draco's obvious emotion at this particular story.

"But for a scar, a lightning bolt scar, on his forehead... completely unharmed," he answered softly, squeezing his sons shoulders in a quick notion of comfort. Draco blinked rapidly.

"But… He saved us. He saved, well, everyone. Me, you, Mother… But his parents are dead. Who's he got left? Who's he got? Papa?" Lucius frowned, completely bewildered, and suddenly plagued by the feeling that he'd missed something, something really obvious…

"I… I, he was sent to some relatives I think. Muggle relatives, in Surrey, or someplace like it. I am unsure," Lord Malfoy shrugged, seemingly not bothered by this lack of knowledge, though inside, his heart was beating doubly fast in trepidation. His fears were confirmed when Draco snarled, suddenly angry.

"He saves the world, and we banish him from it? That's… That's simply vile! It's dishonest, unjust and completely, so completely beyond wrong! I swear to you, Harry Potter is not gone from us! he'll come back, one day, alone and broken because we abandoned him, and he wont fight for us because we don't deserve it! One day, Papa, I swear to you, one day I will shake him by the hand, and I will thank him for our lives, and then, to make right what our world has done wrong, Ill give him what he deserves." Lucius raised an elegant blonde eyebrow archly.

"A medal, Draconis? A prize?" Again, the Malfoy heir let out a snarl of pure fury, unable to contain himself. "No. A _family_. I will give Harry Potter back his life."

A last mutter of defiance – "He _will_ fight for me".

There is no answer to that kind of passionate fury. And there is also no end. For the next five years, Draco bought book after book, read every newspaper article, every conspiracy theory published that contained even a whisper of the words "Harry Potter". He bought every last scrap of merchandise, and even dressed up as Harry for the Halloween festival, by drawing a lightning bolt scar on his forehead. His obsession never faded, never ended. His pony was called Lightning; his favourite stuffed unicorn was Scar. And every night for those five years, Draco would pray to the stars that shone through his bedroom window, that wherever he was, Harry Potter would be happy too.

1st September. He was finally going to Hogwarts. He would meet Harry Potter, he would truly meet him – shake his hand, fulfil his promise. This time he' get a chance to explain… He dumped his luggage in a carriage and thought back to the first time he had seen the wizarding saviour. In Madam Malkin's, of all places… He had been bored out of his mind, having that perverted old woman poking a tape measure in places no tape measure should ever, ever go, when his gaze had met the most beautiful pair of green eyes imaginable. The colour of the emeralds in his fathers Malfoy family ring, they stared right back at him, and he blinked, feeling suddenly small. Instead of blushing, or looking away, he drew himself up and acted the only was he knew.

"Hogwarts, I suppose?" he drawled, hoping the other didn't notice the slight stammer. The boy had replied, looking (and sounding) as nervous as Draco felt. Wondering if the boy could possibly be nervous for the same reason as him, Draco enquired as to the cause of the nerves. On hearing his response, Draco's heart plummeted and the hope that had been steadily growing in his heart burst like a balloon in the hands of an excitable two year old. "You mean… You're a mud- I mean, your parents weren't wizards?" His voice sounded cold, even to his own ears. He wished he could rephrase it, because the other boy seemed to be crumpling in on himself, like he wanted to disappear.

Draco suddenly felt like the worst person alive, and the sharp stab of guilt only deepened when the boy revealed he was an orphan. "Sorry." Somehow, that word never seemed to be enough. He felt the need to explain, to make sure he didn't think… "I didn't mean to…" He bit his lip and trailed off. The boy shrugged, and looked somewhat distant. Draco felt like crying. His first chance at friendship, and he'd already mucked up. The disaster must be somewhat salvageable, he decided, and went for the simplest option. "Im Draco Malfoy. My parents are Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy nee Black" He held out his hand, hoping he wasn't sweating. Then the boy took his hand, and smiled the sweetest smile Draco had ever laid his eyes upon. And then… he said his name.

"Harry Potter."

It was him. Draco thought for one moment that he was going to faint. Instead, he pulled himself together, and focused. So Harry didn't know what his parents names were, so what? It didn't matter, at least not to Draco. In fact, if he thought really fast, he could probably… what was her name? "Evans!" he blurted suddenly, unaware of the fact he was interrupting. He beamed, his face glowing. He was keeping his promise, giving Harry his life, giving him his parents. "I got Outstanding in Primary Pureblood History. James Potter, son of Harold Potter, Son of Charlus Potter, descendant of the great Ignatius Potter, married one Miss Lily Evans, a muggleborn. Quite the scandal really. But still, at least she was a witch…" He bit his tongue, tasting blood. Still, at least it stopped that thrice-damned babbling. He really must learn some self-control. He opened his mouth, but before he could get the words out… His mother. She dragged him out of the shop, and he just had time to look back over his shoulder and feel his heart stop.

Harry was beaming at him, and mouthing the words, "Thank You!" Draco smiled tentatively back, and his left his hear behind, with the piles of unsold robes, and a green eyed angel smiling fit to burst.

And now he was on the train, somewhere. Draco searched every compartment, every luggage rack, until he had bullied, persuaded, blackmailed and bribed his way to Harry's compartment. The moment Draco laid eyes on him again, he knew it was love. He was sitting by the window, dusty sunlight filtering through dirty glass to illuminate a halo of black hair, like the sun glinting off the back of a Thestral. His skin was slightly golden in the autumnal glow, and Draco thought he was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Then those eyes were turned on him, and Draco felt like he was standing in the centre of the sun. He wanted to scream and cry, and hug the Boy Who Lived, to tell him how much he knew, how much he wanted to make things right. He would be Harry's first friend, and they would be great together, inseparable. They would rule Slytherin as one, and- he should speak, say something, anything,

"So it's true," he breathed, his voice sounding far too loud in this small space. "What they're saying." He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, "Harry Potter, in this compartment…" He could barely breathe, he was going to faint, he was HERE, right HERE, and Harry wasn't talking he was just standing there, looking adorably bemused, "I… I, don't you remember me? From the shop, it's me, Draco, Draco Malfoy." And then Harry was smiling, actually properly smiling and then- Draco heard laughter. This wasn't right. He couldn't tell him in front of – Weasley. He sneered, the sharp hurt digging deeper, twisting its way to his delicate heart. "Think my names funny, do you?"

He doesn't add the silent thought – _it hurts more than you know_. "No need to ask who you are, is there? Red hair, freckles, and a hand me down robe? Weasley…" he snarled. Stupid, money grabbing, blood traitor, Weasley. This meeting would only happen, once and he'd ruined it! He'd waited all his life for this moment, and, and now he was spouting all this pure-ist garbage and holding out his hand, and willing Harry to see, there's more to him than this! Every fibre of his being was begging, hoping, praying for him to feel it, to understand, to accept him. But he doesn't.

Draco's hand falls limply to his side.

The world was growing cold, and his heart felt like ice. By the time he'd staggered backwards and lowered his hand, it was engulfed in the fires of anger and pride – and his heart shattered. Vaguely, he thought, _I wonder if Potter sees my heart breaking? I wonder if he sees me dying inside?_ He left the compartment swiftly, and found the nearest bunch of Slytherins – a good looking Italian, and a girl with a faced like a dog that's been hit by the Knight Bus.

His heart was irreparably broken, and the next five years would be one long quest for revenge.

It all changed in sixth year. He'd seen Potter broken, and crying, broken hearted over the loss of his godfather – and somehow, Draco was reminded of the young boy he'd met in Madam Malkin's. New to the world, easily influenced - and if the last five years were anything to go by, a sense of right and wrong so deeply ingrained that he'd stake his life on it. He walked over, and sat down next to Potter, and without speaking a word, just put an arm round him, and whispered, "I'm sorry for your loss Potter. Im, so, so sorry for everything. I'm sorry for what you've had to sacrifice for this cause. And I'm sorry that this world abandoned you. I'm sorry I've been such a prat. I was just nervous. I get all, tongue tied and talk to much – like now…" He trailed off as Potter sat up, green eyes wide in surprise. And to Draco's undying disbelief, there wasn't a trace of distrust, or suspicion. Just pure gratitude and hope. Harry smiled, and leant his head softly on Draco's shoulder.

"Im sorry too, Draco. I… I should've, I just…" Apparently unable to find the words, he sat up, and looked him straight in the eye. "You know, Draco, somehow, though a handshake would be symbolic, I don't think it would be enough." The Malfoy heir raised an eyebrow, and opened his mouth to reply, when he was cut off by warm lips on his own, soft and shy. It took him a moment to convince his heart to keep beating, but then – he was kissing back, and Harry's hands were in his hair, and his breath was warm and sweet on his face, and he could feel tears on his face that might've been his own but he wasn't too sure. But it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered anymore.

And in that moment Draco knew, he'd follow Harry anywhere.

He spent the next two years proving it.

_And now our task is complete._

_It's finally over – we've destroyed Voldemort's soul, piece by rotten piece – and just happened to discover each other along the way._

_I wouldn't have missed it for the world._

_I remember lying awake and listening to the rain, his heart beating next to mine._

_I have to hear it again, his heartbeat beating like a drum._

_I claw my way to him, fighting the Cruciatus with everything I've got, just to hold his hand in mine._

_I hold him close, curses ringing in my ears._

_They sound like screaming._

_No,_

_That's my screaming._

_Why am I screaming?_

_Harry's not breathing._

_His hearts not beating._

_Oh God he's dead._

_He's really dead._

_He died for them, and they don't even care._

_And then I see his hand, the Malfoy ring glinting silver and green in the curse-light._

_And I know._

_He's not fighting for them._

_He's fighting for me._

_For us._

_I laugh as Riddle screams the curse, again and again and again and again and again,_

_I laugh as I feel my soul collapsing around me,_

_I laugh as I fall into his arms._

_Harry…_

**Next Time:** The Fall of Dumbledore's Army


	4. All The Kings Soldiers

**Disclaimer: **Characters owned by J K Rowling.

This takes place at the end of book seven (the last battle), and is slightly AU. Sequel to Mnemosyne.

**Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom and Fred & George Weasley**

**The Fall of Dumbledore's Army**

**~Hermione Granger**

I am running; throwing up shields faster than my heart is beating.

I can't breathe, and I can't think for fear.

Nothing could have prepared me for this.

It's so unfair, all my life, every minute of every day.

Such a waste.

Such a goddamn waste.

I was searching for an answer, for a saviour, for an escape, and it's going to end here.

I've wasted every second.

I should have spent it with him, with –

Where is he?

He was right beside me, I-

I scream as the Inferi of Ronald Weasley bears down upon me, his eyes empty, and his jaw slack.

His red hair is matted with blood, and I can't stop screaming.

My wand falls to the ground as his body burns, an effigy of the man I used to love, burning in silver mist and hysterical laughter.

Patronus.

My hand opens and closes uselessly, and I turn.

I stare into the eyes of the man who has created my hell, and I can do nothing but scream as my heart bleeds fear, spreading like fiery ice in my veins.

Riddle.

My hands are over my mouth, and I step back, I stumble, I'm choking, choking on terror as the curse is spat from his snake lips.

I fall, suddenly silent as the curse rips through me, my chest is tearing itself in two, and I fall in a spray of blood.

I know that this is it.

It is the end, here, now.

And as my life spreads in a pool of ruby-red around my body, my eyes meet his.

He is screaming, crying for me, calling my name.

But it's not enough.

The sound is tinny, blurred, like white noise on a radio set.

I turn my gaze to the sky, unable to watch his heart breaking.

I turn my gaze to the sky, and I cry as I think of the man I love.

The man I'm fighting for.

_Ron…_

**~Neville Longbottom **

I stop dead on the battlefield, unable to take anymore.

My mind is blank with horror at what I've seen, and my lungs are burning.

I spit blood on the grass, and focus on trying to breathe.

I don't know why Im still fighting.

I don't know why I keep running.

After all, everyone else has already given up, haven't they?

The battlefield does strange things to your mind, it eats knowledge.

Hermione, caught in the very trap she warned me about.

It drains you of your hope, of your fighting spirit.

Ron, cut down by Crabbe and Goyle, his brains ruthlessly splattered over wet leaves as he stood and watched helplessly as Hermione died.

It sucks away your soul, and even the most courageous hero turns to cowardice.

Harry.

Our saviour.

He gave up, turned his wand on himself, and left us all for dead.

I can't blame him really.

The whole world was watching, and waiting for him to kill, or be killed.

Harry wasn't a killer.

I don't know why I was the only one to see that.

And now, because of their blind faith, we are lost.

There is nobody left to save us, not anymore.

Nobody to even try.

They're all afraid, all dying, all captured all hopeless shells of the witches and wizards they used to be.

I suppose all I can do is keep on fighting.

Keep on going, in honour of them.

I cut down Death Eaters, Dementors, trolls, evil in all its many forms.

Then suddenly she is there, hissing, ready to strike, her fangs sparkling with venom, flashing green, read and violent white in the curse-light.

I'm firing curses and she doesn't even blink.

I can feel my body growing tired, my heart turning to lead as my soul aches under her poison-yellow gaze.

I've never been smart.

I've never been lucky.

I've never been much of anything.

But I will not be beaten by the mere symbol of my enemy.

I will go down fighting.

They will remember me with honour.

She is hissing in pain now, there is blood everywhere.

Blood and poison.

My body is burning, but I will not scream.

They will remember me with honour.

I will not cry, I will not plead for mercy.

They will remember me with honour.

Mum, Dad.

I never got to know you.

I never got to be your son.

But I did get to do my best.

I did get to try and save you all.

It's a real shame,

that I failed again.

**~Fred & George Weasley **

We duck, and dive, and run, and curse, and not once does he let go of my hand.

We were born together, lived together, and we will fight together.

Death Eaters fall, unable to stand against us.

We always were stronger as a team.

The bonds that hold us are thicker than water to be sure.

But they're thicker than blood too.

I look at him, and he looks at me, and we smile as we run.

Our feet hit the ground in a perfect rhythm, our heartbeats naturally in sync.

I smile at him, blink, and then the world has ended.

One harsh cry of the killing curse takes both our lives.

For how could anyone take but half a soul?

I fall to my knees, and stare into his face.

His eyes, my eyes, our body is lying there.

He is gone. Fred. George.

They are gone.

So who's left?

I'm not sure.

I don't know.

I can't think, I can't see.

All I can feel is the tendrils of cold, Dementor-clad death, as they tighten their hold around me.

I can see that moment, again and again, our eyes glaze over, we fall,

I can hear our screaming.

I am choking, retching, my eyes stay closed.

I don't want to see, I don't want to see my death.

My grim reaper.

I don't want to see this end.

I can't see this end, again.

My mind is fading to white, and I fall, I fall to the ground, and keep on falling.

My hand is clasped tightly, identical fingers laced over identical wrists.

We are gone.

**Next Chapter: **The Last of the Loyal


	5. All The Kings Men

**Disclaimer: Characters owned by J K Rowling.**

This takes place at the end of book seven (the last battle), and is slightly AU. Sequel to Mnemosyne.

**The Last of the Loyal**

**~Severus Snape**

For a few blissful moments, I thought it was over.

I thought we had won.

I thought that I was free.

I thought he had saved us all.

For a few seconds I forgave James Potter for everything.

I admired the man his son had grown into, and I put my faith in him.

And then, in one swift curse, my hopes, my dreams, they were shattered like illusions painted on broken glass.

All the glorious visions of a life free of war turned to faded, cheap illustrations in a child's picture book, flat and lifeless.

I was there, I saw his face.

I saw your eyes as he died.

The most beautiful shade of green that I have ever beheld.

So, so sad, and filled with pain.

I saw him die, and I wished it was me so I could go back to you.

It's all my fault, in the end.

All of this.

The death of him, of both of you, all of you, the whole world…

My weakness, my cowardice, and now you're gone.

Lily.

Lily.

Oh, God, no, anything but this.

This is beyond wrong!

It's not her, oh please, I swear, Oh God…

Lily Evans, the most beautiful woman to ever have lived.

Your eyes are gone, and all that's left are empty sockets that leer at me like the gates of the underworld themselves.

Your hair is rotten like autumn leaves trodden into mud; only a few clumps of Gryffindor red remain, glistening with blood and filth.

Your skin once so pale, so fair, is the past white of a corpse, marred by damp soil.

You used to smell like a forest of wild-flowers after a rainstorm; but now the only scent that clings to you is that nauseating stench of death and decay.

And I can't bear it.

I fall to my knees, and look up at him as I say the words – a millennia too late, but as true now as they were then.

_I loved her._

Riddles face is pure rage, a snarl of hatred and fury, but my heart is broken beyond repair, and there's nothing left to fear him with.

I raise the sword high, the blade of Godric Gryffindor gleaming as it bites smoothly through flesh and bone and muscle with no more than a sighing whisper and the soft pop of snapping tendons, and the rush of broken magic.

I feel the tether snap, as the Dark Mark flees the wound like a rat from a sinking ship.

I hope this is enough to absolve me from my sins.

I wanted to atone for everything, to make it right.

But how do I turn back time?

I'd give my heart and soul, my dear, to save what you died for.

My life will have to do, Lily.

_I'm sorry._

**~Lucius Malfoy**

The night sky is black as pitch, darkness staining the once blue skies like tar, like the blood that stains this once green grass.

People lie decapitated, bleeding, dying everywhere.

I can hear nothing but screaming, the voices of those that I know.

Minerva McGonagall. Granger. Potter. Severus.

_Draco_.

So many, so young, so talented, so many!

It's such a waste, as they lie here, scattered like lights gone out, their bodies abandoned and mud spattered, being trampled underfoot as people run in fear.

It's so undignified, so improper.

I was raised as a pureblood should be; I know that this is wrong.

We are a disgrace to our lineage.

So many people, at such a cost, for such a long time…

We are worse than the muggles we strove to eradicate.

My whole life has been wasted on this cause, wasted on the belief that a madman could heal a sick world.

I just wanted to make this a better place for my son to live, and instead, he lies dead on a battlefield.

Tortured by the hand of the man I swore to serve, until his brain bled out of his ears, while he laughed in the arms of the one we worked to kill.

Why did my son end up fighting against me?

I suppose it shows, I did well by him, I gave him intelligence higher than my own.

His side may have lost this battle, but our army is a broken one.

We are consumed by madness and grief.

Most of us are dead; most of us have been going slowly insane in the holds of Azkaban.

I don't know what will become of me.

I don't know what will become of this world, this war, this life.

I hope some good comes of all this, like flowers that erupt into bloom, breaking free of the harsh reign of winter.

I hope someone survives all this, and puts the world at rights.

I just wish I could have been there to see it.

The dagger in my heart is cold as the Dark Lord's laughter, and my head is bowed, my hair hiding my tears, my last shame.

I swallow my pride, swallow my fear and tip my face to the heavens.

I didn't want the last thing I saw to be mud and destruction.

Even while we die in the throes of war, the stars still burn.

They will keep burning for eternity, as comfort for the losing side.

**Next Chapter: **Tom Riddle and the End of It All

**Please Review!**


	6. Under the Emerald Sea

**Disclaimer: Characters owned by J K Rowling.**

This takes place at the end of book seven (the last battle), and is slightly AU. Sequel to Mnemosyne.

**Tom Riddle**

**The End of It All**

_I stride over the battlefield, and laugh at the carnage I have created._

_My boots crunch over semi-decomposing corpses, crushing Death Eaters, Blood traitors and Mudbloods alike._

_After all, once they're dead, they're naught but bodies. _

_No use to me – I don't even need Inferi anymore, not when I've got a steady supply of skeletons and moulding zombies from the neighbouring graveyard._

_Everyone is dying though._

_I don't think that was supposed to happen._

_The Mudbloods were supposed to be exterminated, to be sure, but I had not counted on them putting up such a good fight._

_For people who look to a teenage orphan to save them, they really are killing a lot of my followers._

_If they even deserve the term, followers._

_They were supposed to be my men._

_To stay with me, to fight for me._

_Die for me._

_Die for the cause._

_The cause._

_Yes._

_I smile, my faith is restored._

_We will win this war._

_I will not be harmed; they haven't got a chance, not anymore._

_Their saviour cursed himself in the head;_

_I saw him collapse in the mud in a blaze of green fire._

_I knew then that we'd won; they don't stand a chance without-_

_Harry._

_The Boy Who Wouldn't Die._

_How?_

_How does he do it, constantly cheat death?_

_I would do anything to live a little longer._

_He's laughing now, and my smile is fading._

_Why won't he die?_

_Why is he laughing?_

_It should be me that's laughing?_

_He's casting a spell that leaves little showers of golden rain all around us, what spell is that?_

_They're here, all of them!_

_A cracked ring, an ink stained journal, my beloved snake – decapitated and bleeding. _

_A smashed cup, a buckled silver locket._

_And Him._

_Harry Potter, his scar bleeding heavily, tracks of scarlet running down his face._

_I can do nothing but stare at the empty vessels that once held the most precious cargo._

_A whimper breaks free, and I fall to my knees in the mud, cradling them close, whispering, crying._

_Harry is still standing and I look up into my death._

_His eyes are so green…, curse-green they are._

_He raises a silver Muggle weapon, holds it to my forehead._

_There is a sneer on his face, a look of hatred worthy of a Dark Lord._

_Look what I have created._

_I should feel so proud._

_Why is it that all I feel is sorrow?_

"_Scared, Riddle?" he asks._

Toms mind reels, spinning backwards as he was forcibly reminded of that awful day, sixty five years ago. The worst day of his miserable life. It was a freezing cold day mid July, and little Tommy Riddle was sitting hunched over in the corner of a deserted orphanage courtyard, surrounded by three impossibly bulky eight year olds. "Scared, Riddle?" sneered the tallest of the three. Tom looked up sharply, his blue eyes blazing fiercely, but he didn't make a sound. The bully frowned, and grabbed Tom by the neck, slamming him backwards against the stone wall, bright bursts of white light splattering over Tom's vision and a pain like fire spreading across the back of his head. "I asked you a question, freak boy!" snarled the bully as he drew his other fist back.

Seconds later and Tom was doubled up on the floor, gasping and retching, spewing blood over muddy cobblestones. Tears stung his eyes, but he bit his lip firmly, years of experience telling him that to cry would be a Very Very Bad Idea in the circumstances. He scrabbled around on his hands and knees, flailing helplessly as a muddy trainer planted firmly on the small of his back prevented him from standing. Spit splashed to the floor by his face, and he looked up at his tormentors. "Stupid little orphan freak…" murmured the blonde whale of a boy, as he crouched down by Toms head, leaving the business of restraining him to his two followers. "You're so freaky even your own Mummy didn't want you. You know what I heard? I heard she showed up here, gave birth to you – then took one look at your face and died of horror."

Tom couldn't help the snarl of rage that tore itself from his throat, and he bucked, trying to escape, to make this boy hurt. Instead, the bigger lad just laughed and continued talking. "Ah, don't be feisty now. No manners. You should respect your elders and betters." The foot on Toms back was lifted, and he was flipped over, before the foot met with his ribs. Gasping for air, Tom looked up into the upside down face of his schoolfellow. "You see, Tommy, you shouldn't complain. We're just giving you what you deserve. You did kill you own mother, after all, didn't you freak? You're a murderer." Tom had had enough.

Somehow, impossibly, Tom's fist was aching, and the blonde boys face was bleeding heavily, his nose completely shattered. The other two boys gaped down at Tom – five year old Tom – and took a step back. Toms lip was raised in a vicious snarl, and he glared up at the wailing bully, his eyes wild and feral. "So I'm a murderer. I murdered her, and I wont feel bad about murdering you, I hope you rot in hell you-" He was cut off by the arrival of the dinner lady, who took one look at the group of boys, and the crying blonde boy, and sent Tom to his room without any dinner, pointedly ignoring the dripping blood congealing in Toms hair, and the smear of scarlet on the stone wall.

Tom sat alone, on the windowsill in his room. He peered out of the grimy window, through faded tracks where raindrops once slid, through spatters of mould, and rust on the iron frame, through putrid smears of bird shit and into the world beyond. Little Tommy Riddle looked out over the world, and it was decided. "One day. One day that will be mine. And no one will be able to take it from me. One day I'll be free, they'll never catch me again. I'm special, I will not die here. I'm not useless like her, I'll survive this. I will not die here, I will not die here, I am Tom Riddle, I am above this, I am more than this, I will not die here, they will not win…"

The frenzied murmurs went on long into the night, and come morning, when Tom was sent for by the Headmistress for failing to attend breakfast, they would find him sitting calmly on the windowsill, the rest of the room blazing around him. The flames were licking over the roof beams, the whole room choking and burning in a dizzying roar of violent orange and shocking red and Tom Riddle sat in the midst of it all, silent and staring, completely unharmed. He didn't even smell like the bitter tang of the smoke that was billowing all around him in clouds the colour of death.

It would be six long years before Tom realised his magical abilities for what they were. But in those six years he had learnt how to make people hurt, how to make them scream. He learnt how to make people fear him in a way he'd never thought possible. He even learnt how to kill. The first time Tom killed someone with his Special Power was when he was ten years old.

Looking back, Tom would almost have expected something different, something more. There weren't storm clouds gathering on the horizon, rain wasn't storming from the heavens, and a bitter wind didn't howl like a crazed demon. Instead, it was an ordinary if not somewhat dull Tuesday. They had been on a day trip to a small cove by the sea. The whole day had been something of a nightmare, from early start to grisly finish. While the other children raced around the beach, clamouring over rock pools, laughing and playing with their friends, Tom sat alone. Alone and still, his legs were dangling over a rough stone edge, the seawater lapping at his feet. He flopped back and stared up at the sky, framing his eyes with his pale hands. Staring straight up into nothing but clouds, it looked almost as though the sky had been torn away, leaving only the blank haze that seemed to occupy Tom's mind when he made the rats and sparrows scream.

He half-smiled, half smirked, his conscious mind already lost in thought, his soul once again travelling away from this pitiful life. He lived in dreams and imagination, shut out the world that seemed to despise him so. Therefore it was more than a slight shock, when he found himself pushed over the edge of the precipice, and engulfed in freezing salty water. He spluttered, coughed, reached up with a thin, pale arm but his grasping hand closed on empty air. He just had time to draw a single gasping breath, before he was swept back under. It was cold and dark, and lights seemed to be fizzing behind Tom's eyes. His lungs were burning, the ferocious, desperate thrashing of his limbs growing slower as the world faded to the no-colour of the clouds. The world seemed to stop spinning, and everything settled into place. "I will not die here."

The words bubbled out of his mouth, but no water passed his parted lips. His oxygen deprived mind pulled itself into focus, the panic dissolving away into icy clarity. He struck out with his arms, kicked with his feet, and found himself swimming into some kind of cave. His head broke the surface, and the world filtered back. The sounds of children laughing, and shrieking playfully, the sound of the waves, of the seagulls. The sunlight bouncing around from the cave entrance. He hauled himself out of the water and collapsed on a rock, exhausted, gasping steadily. Three children wandered in, laughing. Tom looked at them, looked into their eyes, and somehow, impossibly, he knew. He saw the boys sneaking up and tossing him into the waves, snickering and grinning as he was swept away. They thought he had died.

And they had laughed.

Tom could feel that familiar feeling buzz through his veins, and he stood. "Well, look who it is." He sneered at his tormentors. "A brave little trio. Thought you rid the world of scum, did you? Such brave, brave boys." The tallest of the three took a step back, his face white. Tom chuckled, the sound high pitched and cold. "Ah, hah, forgive me. It's just too funny!" He grinned and laughed again. "You actually thought you could kill me? You, you worthless little boys, so blind, all your lives so blind! You never did see it, did you?" He grinned and walked over to them, all earlier signs of shock and weakness melting away into pure, controlled hatred. "In fact, I don't think you can even see what's right in front of you. You call me a freak, yet did you never consider the alternative? I'm special, you know. I am more than you could ever hope to be, with your useless little minds, you-"

He broke off, frowning at the three children, cowering to the ground, two crying. "Why are you crying?" Tom said plaintively. "I'm just trying to explain." A small, sandy haired boy spoke up.

"Y...You're crazy! Crazy freak-" His voice was brought to a sudden and shrieking end as Tom struck him hard in the face, his lip bursting open at the impact. Tom examined the blood on his hands interestedly.

"Im not a freak…" He murmured. "No, I'm, not." He paused, licked his lips and shrugged. "Crazy… Well, that's a matter of opinion I suppose. I could be crazier than anyone. It could be that none of this is real. But if that's the case, who am I to disrupt such a pleasant, pleasant dream?" It was then that the little girl came racing into the cave, and straight into Tom. They were submerged in freezing cold, and Toms head smacked hard into the rocky sea floor. Peering through a haze of blood and stars, he swam for the surface, glossy back hair breaking the surface of the waves for the second time in moments. He looked around, and saw her. She too had fallen into the rocks, her head split open, blood and brain mixing with the sea water Tom was currently drifting in. He was swimming in her death.

He heard his own disgusted cry as though from hundreds of miles away, and took a clumsy movement back, when a pair of strong hands suddenly tangled themselves in his hair, and forced his head beneath the waves. He gagged and lost focus, his limbs frozen with shock as his eyes snapped open, and he found himself lost in the murky red. He was shoved deeper, and cried out in horror as his flailing hands became tangled in her long blonde hair. He thrashed wildly, but his mind was too lost in the nightmare for him to wake up and swim away. Somehow, impossibly, as the desperation consumed his heart, he found himself back on land, dry as a bone. He blinked and managed a wolfish smile at the three gawping boys. The one who had been holding him under was pin wheeling his arms, losing balance after Tom impossibly disappeared.

Tom walked up behind him and sent him crashing into the waves with a well placed kick. The boy was crying and trying frantically to keep hold of the rock. "Did you think it was funny?" Tom hissed, "Did you think you were being clever? I tell you what, would you like to try it and see?" He stared at the boy, willing it to happen, like it had before. And slowly but surely, the boy was forced beneath the waves as though by some invisible hand. Tom closed his eyes and revelled in it. He could actually see the boy's last breath bubbling up in the bloodstained water. He could feel him struggling, jerking, fighting against Toms hold, he could feel him die.

Tom threw his head back and laughed. A grand joke indeed and such a fitting end for such a boy. The other two boys looked horrified, they looked at Tom and Tom simply smiled, and raised a hand. "I would say farewell, or something witty, but somehow, I rather think that no words are needed at all. Especially when your friend provided such lovely screams. I hope you won't disappoint." He brought his hand slashing down, and laughed and laughed as their blood mixed with salt water and dirty stone. He was still laughing hours later when they found him, lying alone in his rickety bed, though how he got there was simply inexplicable.

Then, on his 11th birthday he found out. He was a wizard. These powers, this special ability, it was magic. He hadn't been too pleased to hear – there were others like him. He wasn't special after all. But no matter, no matter. This Dumbledore was powerful, and, Tom decided, he would become powerful too. One day, he would triumph over this Headmaster man; he would prove he was more. He was stronger, smarter, and more special than this bearded fool. Tom's opinions and goals didn't change much over the next seven years, they were merely strengthened. He made no friends, save for a lonely basilisk snake he met on one of his many nightly wanderings and instead poured his ambition, his cunning, and his thirst for power into his studies. Consequently he was top of every class, the best of them all. But it wasn't enough.

He would look in the mirror, and the person gazing back wasn't himself. Some days Tom thought back and wondered, where had Tommy Riddle gone? And then, slowly, gradually, aided by spells and desperation, Tom Riddle was stifled, suffocated, buried alive by Him. Lord Voldemort, agent of chaos, bringer of complete destruction. So many years, of so much pain. His soul wasn't his soul. He was no longer permitted use of his mind, his heart. It was enough to drive anyone mad, and Tom wasn't even sure he'd been sane to start with.

Maybe everything had been a lie.

Maybe all there was was the blank emptiness of the clouds over a wintry beach.

_Except I can feel it now._

_After so many years, I can feel my heart beating._

_There are tears on my face, and I can't even bring myself to laugh._

_I don't feel like laughing._

_Not anymore._

_And from the look on Harry's face, neither does he._

_He is crying too, our tears are mixing together into the mud and the blood and the war. _

_His had is shaking as he holds the gun to my forehead._

_He is trembling as he looks down at me._

_But his gaze is as heated and steady as molten iron._

"_You killed them."_

_I did. _

_I wish I hadn't. _

"_It's all your fault."_

_I know._

_I wish it wasn't._

"_You are the reason that they are dead!"_

_I am._

_I wish I hadn't been._

"_Because of you, I have lost everything!"_

_It was my fault._

_I wish I could take it back._

"_And I see now what I've had to become to stop a man like you. And it's killed me, Tom, it's killed me!"_

_I know, Harry._

_I wish, oh how I wish you could have been spared._

"_You made me like you."_

_I did._

_I didn't want to, I really didn't want to._

"_And now, my world has ended. And there's nothing I can do. Save this."_

_Do what you have to, Harry._

_God knows I deserve it. _

_I nod; I don't break eye contact, don't look away, and don't fight it._

_I don't want to fight it any more. _

_He's looking at me, differently. _

_There is less hatred, less fire. _

_He's stopped crying._

"_Tom."  
Harry._

"_Your eyes are blue."_

_I blink and then I realize. _

_I can feel._

_I can feel myself, all of me._

_My soul. _

_My soul is one, repaired._

_I am whole again. _

_I laugh, and Harry is laughing too._

_The gun lies abandoned in the mud as we cry, and he is on his knees._

_I have brought him down to my level._

_We look at each other, and I know._

_I know he understands._

_And it's just us, and we're laughing, we're here, together, and the sun is shining down on me._

_I can feel the sunlight again._

_It's beautiful._

_I open my eyes, and lose myself in a world of emerald green._

_I smile, and I think,_

_I've never felt more alive._

Harry didn't realise a curse had even been thrown until Tom was slumped forwards, in his arms.

It was the way his heartbeat stopped too suddenly, the way his laughter broke.

It was the way his smile froze, the way his blue eyes glazed.

It was the way he was thrown forwards in a stream of pure, vicious green.

Tom Riddle.

He had lost more than anyone.

He had lost more than his mind, more than his life.

Tom Riddle had lost his way, lost his chance.

Lost his destiny.

Harry closed his eyes and the saviour let out a cry of heartbreak as he mourned all he had lost.

The world watched as he crumpled to the ground.

The world watched as they let him burn.

The world blinked, and time had moved on.

The battlefield was a carpet of poppies.

And still the birds sing, and the sun shines down, and the grass shines, a seemingly endless sea of the brightest shade of green.


End file.
